Dregs

After four volumes is there still water in the well? Little should be needed for a measly hundred words. But all I draw is dregs of micfic past:  images that never floated, metaphors too mixed to rise from their ashes and similes like an old car with an unreliable ignition coil.

I touch things I threw back as too strange, too frail or too ugly: the drunken rambling without legs; that voiceless dialogue; the enlightened duck pie and most of all, the hive monologue on truth.

They mock me from their unwritten limbo.

Water enough for a nostalgic drabble?

Apparently.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *